


burning, scarlet-inked letters

by Elisye



Series: mayflower | cosmos [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: "im making this shit up as i go with it" the fic, Gen, if you're looking for an intimate of devils then this is Sort of Not That Fic (Maybe), oc is agender as hell but doesnt mind being associated with victorian london femininity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Grounded Occultist meets with a certain Affectionate Devil.</p><p>(It does not go as expected, on one side of the dining table.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	burning, scarlet-inked letters

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I went spider council hunting after getting kicked outa court, and me being a real correspondence lover in terms of what it is and its workings (like my aesthetic much??????? yes), im more than curious about what that eldritch spider said before the entire chapel got nicely burnt down from my not-researched choices lmao
> 
> so this is just some weird rambling thing resulting from the above. ww. weird not grammar or spelled checked thing bc it's too late into the night for that now wwwwwwww

Dante's Grill has the same smoked air as any other brass establishment, the ceiling low and the curtains brushed to a shameless luster. For the same reason as the chandeliers wrought in black gold versus a normal, sweet rostygold, the Grounded Occultist takes a fashionable but eager interest in the restaurant - and like any other curious patron, they come back time and time again, a new favorite in love with the glossy wooden tables, but not so much in favor of the piled red carpeting used throughout; "Dull and uninteresting, too simple - - too _red_ ," is the usual answer, the words having sharp edges from a snippy tone, though there's occasionally a day or two where their mood is different and the color red gains a furious smear.

In any case, the young lady makes their choice and pick of food, and this is where the two of them meet on a foggy, warm July date - in a similarly sweltering, but uncrowded dining hall of the devilish eatery. The pair sit opposite each other, perfectly front to front, a straighter line than what's informal. No one makes much note of the detail, though, considering how the other guest at the table is a humanly figure with a fedora slightly obscuring his eyes, his grin not at all hidden on the other hand. Pursuing the pursuant, pursuing a bright, bright thing; the soul trade thrives as much as a royal game of fox hunting once used to, and it carries that same necessity for being forward, in a subtle, patterned-weaving of effect and cause.

"Fog wine or red wine, my dear?"

"Red, of course. But only if you're truly paying for our entire meal." They laugh, smothered only on the edges by a black glove - - a fingerless one, interestingly enough. Such gloves aren't fashionable at all, at least at this current time. In the next few centuries, however...

The devil dips his hat by mere centimeters, smiling. "I am a man of my word now - - to say I wouldn't pay for you is most ungentlemanly of me."

The lady just laughs again, louder, blunt and harsh - for the rather refined section they're seated in, it's a little too harsh and loud, though. A few wandering, wondering eyes fall on their table, shooed away with either instant disinterest or two eyes meeting them head on, an aggressive but clear message to look pointedly away from the scene. You simply do not interfere in a devil's work business out of plain curiosity, at times.

"A man of your word?" The Occultist repeats, humored more than anything. "Ah, just how many people have you fooled into thinking you were an excellent wordsmith, now? Because that wasn't subtle at all, my devilish sir. Not at all - I know people better at it than you, at least."

"You make such grand boasts, my lady. It almost wounds my pride to hear that."

"Haha. Do devils even experience pride?"

"Certainly. Even devils have souls," he replies, with a half-grave tone - for while they didn't seem to speak their words with any insulting thoughts in mind, it's better to clear an old Neathly mystery as it arises. There have been too many countless confusions and miscommunication over such a terribly wrong assumption - - and to anyone's exasperation, humans take an ungodly long time to stop repeating any certain mistakes across history. "It is only with my own, true soul, that I call out to the beauty of yours."

His guest gives him a smile, but it's thoroughly unimpressed. Not a common reaction, but still, it's within his expectations - the soul trade means meeting a variety of faces and personalities, and of course, not all of them are easy to please. Some have rejected his offer and refused his advances from the start, stubbornly to the present day. He will just have to try harder to catch this one's, now.

"I can believe that." They say it plaintively, elbows leaning against the table surface - they look elegantly ladylike, but they sometimes don't act like it, apparently. "Devils having a soul... Well, in a way now, that makes perfect sense. Common sense. But in your case? My doubt lies there now."

They flutter their eyelashes with mocking effect. He has to wonder what they find most amusing about this.

Before he can reply back, a waiter arrives, a bottle of foggy mushroom wine and a bottle of vintage, Surface-grape wine sitting on his tray. The devil moves to pick up both - who knows what his guest will drink, in the end? It hasn't been decided now - but, perhaps interestingly enough, the lady plucks both off the tray in a smooth, swifter movement, one in each hand, setting them down with a strong _thump_ against the twilight table cloth. At some point, they even managed to grab the cork opener, with the other hand casually dismissing the waiter despite the entire situation being against usual protocol in serving hospitality. Nonetheless, a few persistent looks and seconds is enough, and the pair are quite alone with each other again, save for another wave of passing eyes which fall back to their own plates and glasses eventually.

The lady truly isn't patient - or rather, uninterested in waiting for him to do it, they uncork the red wine and pour themselves a half-glass' worth. A small still in their hands, barely noticeable, show that it's only an after-thought before they pour the same amount in the devil's glass as well. He doesn't remark on their impassive breaking of fine dining etiquette, merely accepting the wine offered; in these stifling sort of eras, where manners and societal roles play so much importance down to even eating now - - it's a little refreshing to find someone either too naively forward in thinking, or just uncaring in general. His guest settles back into their cushioned chair, absently dusting their dull gown skirt for a moment as he twirls the wine glass in his hand, taking a brief sip. The Occultist moves to do the same just an instance later, picking up the glass daintily, before all too quickly setting it down again, untouched in the end.

With no obvious interest in spiced drinks and a loosened tongue for now, perhaps, they return to how they were just earlier - elbows on the table, fingers entwined, their chin resting lightly there. Curious, again. He still hasn't given them an answer, after all.

"...I have my soul still resting in me, worry not. My heart and its thoughts are most genuine."

"How lovely," they reply in turn, dryly. "But I still don't believe that."

"And yet, I hear - your belief for finding fortunes in window lights, and all manner of unseen mysteries?"

They giggle. If it weren't for his natural hearing, keener than humans, he would have utterly missed the soft _that's weak_ muttered under their breath as well. "My eyes are all-seeing, as a great spider once told me."

"A spider?" He takes another a sip of wine, idly but rhythmically taping the table edge. The romantically-placed candelabra on the table shudders ever so slightly from the movement, the lit flames wavering even more so. "My, you've undertaken a number of strange exploits since your banishment from court, haven't you? The rumor-mills might be fascinated to hear the story behind that one, I believe."

They tilt their head to the side, cheek now resting against their crossed fingers. A childish glint, as mischievous as the look of urchin children, touches their eyes. "Are you interested, now? About what I've been up to?"

"A little. Not too long after your banishment, you see, a little cat told me about some very odd thefts occurring in Spite..."

The lady makes a strained noise in the back of their throat, but doesn't look very distressed on the surface regardless - a lopsided feeling to their smile, yes, but it's embarrassed over guilty. "...I may gotten bored, sitting all day in my lodgings with nothing to pass the time with."

"Thievery is quite an adventurous hobby to take up, even for you."

"Is it now?" They give him a humored look once again, eyes shimmering and shimmering - - a very certain light, reaching out through the windows of the soul, in a way it _absolutely shouldn't_ , before the effect fades away all too quickly. He almost wonders if he was merely seeing things - for he knows better than anyone at this moment, that his guest is only human, and certainly nothing less or more than that. But experience speaks otherwise, in ever vivid tones, about smothered fires and singing lives; about stars humming their distant melodies throughout the night, as the moon makes distorted tunes reflected from the sun. Of all creation, once under the light, bearing a fragment of the song spewed forth eternally from a point in the cosmos.

Experience talks to him in that doting, factual way - but he should know better, and so he knows better.

"...Well, you are certainly a remarkable lady, I am more than assured of that," he says, slowly; it's a tad strange, but he suddenly can't find the right words to say, at this moment. Not a matter though, as every devil tutored in this line of business would learn how to manipulate even their silence into an engaging conversation of sorts - with some better at it than others, of course, and he still has that luck of being quite charismatic when necessary. "I can certainly see you committing a few mindless burglaries, even out of pure listlessness. But, considering the lack of definite evidence here, I suppose I will have to keep that thought to myself. How do you fancy that, my dear?"

The Occultist smiles widely, stretching their lips out to a feral grin, almost. Their eyes sparkle again, and despite feeling curious about the colors swirling in their irises - black to grey to green to white to blue to amber to irrigo and gant and light, therein only just _light_ \- he just isn't interested in knowing now. He had been vehemently concerned about it not a moment ago, even, but the seconds have since passed and he simply cannot find the same threads of thought he held and dropped. Searching for them would be meaningless, as of now. He knows when things ought to stay lost, and so, the devil keeps a clear focus on his guest as they hum in agreement.

Another waiter soon comes by, their confident strides shuttering down to dazed shuffles while nearing them. Two well-cooked, dark red steaks are set on the table, and from there, the evening passes by uneventfully to the point of forgetfulness.

(It takes nearly a week before he remembers that he's supposed to be claiming their soul, not paying for their dinner.)


End file.
